


Battle of the Network Scars

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has a scar.  Or as John likes to call it, a squiggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of the Network Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "don't even think about it". (And I could not resist that title.)
> 
> * * *

"I hate baseball," Matt declared.

"You never even watch it."

"Uh, hello? It's on every time I'm over here! I'm pretty sure you have, like, the All Baseball All The Time channel." Matt waved a hand at the television screen, where a dude in a blue and white uniform had been tossing a ball back and forth to his first baseman for at least forty-seven minutes. "It's on right now!"

"And are you _watching_ it?"

Okay. Matt had to admit that John had a point. While it was true that the television at John's place was constantly blaring America's Pastime, he never actually sat down and _watched_ a game. Usually he chatted. Sometimes he booted up his netbook and played _Assassin's Creed_. At some point he usually managed to annoy John enough that John threw the remote across the room and tackled him instead, and then things really got interesting.

"I'm not," Matt finally said. "Because it's _boring_. And because I hate baseball."

"How do you know you hate it if you never even—"

"How do I know?" Matt interrupted. "Okay, settle in for a story, all right McClane? How do I know? Seventh grade, Little League—"

"Oh jeeezus."

"My dad makes me join because he says I'm spending too much time holed up in my room with my computer, right? So he gets me the shirt and the cap and the glove and the goddamn shin guards and elbow pads and I'm out there like a _doofus_ when the ball flies right at me, I have NO idea what I'm doing, okay, absolutely NONE, I seriously had one practice session and is there protection for the face, McClane? I'll answer that question for you. There is not, there is NO face protection in baseball, and the ball hits me right between the eyes, I'm out cold for a good five minutes—"

"Five minutes?" John said skeptically.

"At least two minutes, all right? Those birds that fly around the animated dude's face in those old time cartoons? I _saw_ those birds, McClane. So I finally regain consciousness and, you know what? You don't know pain until you've been hit in the face with a … well, I mean, _you_ know pain, because shooting yourself in the shoulder like a dumbass and all, but most people? They do not understand the level of intense—"

"It hurt," John interrupted. "Got it, kid."

"And my coach tells me to shake it off and get back in the game!" Matt concluded. "Can you believe that?"

"Actually—"

"I have a _scar_ , McClane!"

_That_ got his attention, and Matt leaned forward when John dragged himself away from the big screen – where the blue and white dude was _finally_ pitching to the batter – to squint in his direction. Matt said a silent mental goodbye to the Rangers or whatever the hell they were called, because once John got a gander at his sports injury it was going to be all soothing words and sympathy and they'd be lucky if they made it to the bedroom before he was riding McClane like a pony. Buh-bye, baseball. 

Then John cocked his head. "Where?" he asked.

"What… wh… are you even… what do you mean, _where_?" Matt spluttered. He stabbed a finger between his eyes. "Right fucking there!"

John squinted again. "What, that little squiggle?"

Matt could feel his blood pressure rising even as he threw up his hands. "That little—"

"That ain't a scar, kid," John said decisively. His hand rose quickly to drag down the collar of his shirt, exposing the mass of tissue on his shoulder that remained as a visual reminder of The Stupidest Thing John McClane Has Ever done. "That? Is a scar."

"Okay, you know, fine, maybe my 'little squiggle'," Matt said, sure to give it the air quotes it deserves, "isn't as awe-inspiring as deliberately almost killing yourself, because, you know, great plan there—"

But John wasn't finished, and Matt could only shake his head when he drew up the hem of his shirt and then dragged the whole thing over his head to expose the thin jagged scar on his ribcage from the old knife wound. "That," he said, pointing, "is a scar."

"I get that you have me beat on the whole Whose Scars Are More Badass thing, but that does not negate the fact that I was _traumatized_ as a child by—"

John ignored him completely, bending down and reaching for his socks. "These are—"

"Oh fuck, McClane, don't even think about it."

"Scars!" John pronounced, sticking his bare feet in the air. 

"You are disgusting," Matt said conversationally. "And seriously, getting those ones must have hurt almost as much as _getting beaned in the head by a hardball as a twelve year old_."

"Yeah yeah," John said, finally leaning back on the sofa. "Bet that squiggle gave you a hell of a shiner."

"It did," Matt answered. And he definitely was not pouting. 

"You're pouting," John pointed out.

No. He _really_ was not pouting. But he let John tug him into his side anyway, and closed his eyes when John slid the ball of his thumb between his eyebrows, brushing gently at the scar. "Your old man make ya keep playing?"

"After that, whenever I got put into the outfield I just sat down on my glove and played my Gameboy," Matt said. "They kicked me out after two more games. Dad was _pissed_. Thought he was gonna lose his mind on the ride home."

"I bet," John said. Matt opened his eyes when John moved his hand to his cheek, turning his face gently so that they were eye to eye. "Bet I've got something that could take your mind off all that _childhood trauma_ ," John said teasingly. 

Matt looked over John's shoulder to see that the blue and white dude was _still_ pitching. "What about the game?" he asked.

"Meh," John said. "I'm half naked already. Besides, baseball's kinda boring."


End file.
